


Fortunate Son

by iamlordmoldyshorts



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamlordmoldyshorts/pseuds/iamlordmoldyshorts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a man lacking a role model must be in need of a father figure. But there are many who refuse to acknowledge this necessity as desire...and for them, these dreams just cannot be. - There's been an unmentioned relationship between Sherlock and Lestrade ever since Lestrade found Sherlock hanging around a gruesome investigation at age five.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 5 & 21

**Author's Note:**

> So...I think this is the fic that happened when I watched The Dark Knight too many times. As it happens, I seem to have given Lestrade and Sherlock a Gordon and Bruce type of relationship. Entirely accidental, I assure you. This fic documents their interactions throughout the years and focuses on the unmentioned family-type feelings between the two.

It was raining.

Not a hard pour but a persistent drizzle that soaked skin to the bone and permeated clothes for hours after one returned to a dry location. The umbrella did nothing to deter the aimless drops as they fell onto recently dug earth and the beautiful oak coffin.

His curly, dark hair had fallen into his eyes so often that Sherlock had stopped bothering to brush it aside. While many might have thought his lack of tears unnerving, Sherlock simply didn't see that point of needless emotions. His tears wouldn't bring his father back. Truth be told, Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted his father back. He was much more partial to mummy anyway. As the grave diggers started to lower father into the earth, the group began to disperse. Deciding to take this as express permission to wander off, Sherlock turned and strode as purposely as a five year old could across the cemetery to the unrecognizable noises that were pressing on his ears on this most unfavorable day.

* * *

"It's raining. I have perimeter duty and it's raining." I took off my hat and briefly wondered who I had pissed off to get this duty. I shook out the hat and put it back on my head. Rolling my neck and stretching, I fought a yawn by taking a sip of my coffee. Turning around, I scoped out the other Yarders milling about confusedly. Dimmock was mumbling into a tape recorder along the perimeter. Forester was interviewing the next door neighbor, quite uselessly if he was to be honest to himself. Don, the forensic scientist, was unintentionally destroying evidence along a window pane on the second floor of the building while gathering prints. I sighed. "Can't believe I went to university for this." Resigning myself to another long day of little pay off, I turned back around to peruse the perimeter once more. Skimming the slowly growing crowd, I paused and had to double-take when I saw a small child standing directly outside the caution tape, gazing at the crime scene steadily.

"What in the world…" I mumbled under my breath to myself. _Definitely not a place for a child._ Making a decision, I walked over to the young man. I bent down to speak to him on his level but before I did he beat me to speaking.

"Don't bother. I know your knee is hurting you. Luckily it's only a slight sprain. You'll be right as, well, rain," at this, he paused and glanced around at the steady mist, "in a few days. Four at most."

Frozen somewhere between a stand and a crouch, I stared. "Excuse me?"

"Well, your recovery depends on the weather. It's going to rain for a few days but –"

"No. How did you know I was injured?"

He blinked at me. "When you stand, you put all your weight on your left leg until it begins to hurt and even then you only pop your hip. You also stutter-stepped when you began heading over here, like you had forgotten and quickly were reminded of the need to compensate for the pain. But your ankle is rolling through your steps fine. Thereby, knee. You had forgotten the injury meaning it is likely temporary."

I stared, flabbergasted, at this precocious child before me. Vaguely, I head someone behind me calling my name. He blinked again and looked past me. I spun around and saw DI Wallace summoning me over. I looked down at the small child in bewilderment. He nodded and raised his eyebrows at me.

"Just don't go anywhere, kid." I hurried over to Wallace. "Yes sir?"

"You're supposed to be on perimeter control. The press just showed. Who's the kid?" We both looked back at the boy who was still gazing fondly at our crime scene.

"No idea. Seems to be here by himself."

"Return him back to his family and get back to the tape."

"Yes sir," I confirmed as I turned to locate the child's family. I walked up to him and once again he interrupted before I could get a word in edgewise.

"They aren't here."

I waited for him to explain.

"My family. I saw you looking. Your boss put you in charge of getting me out of here. Shame. This is fascinating."

A crime scene should be confusing to a kid. Not enamoring. This time, it was I who raised one eyebrow. _Strange kid._

"So if they aren't here…" I trailed off to allow him to fill in the blank.

"I guess I should head back now. Mummy might be getting worried."

"May I join you?"

He looked at me and wrinkled his nose. "If you must."

I ducked under the tape and we headed away from the scene.

"My name's Sherlock, by the way. You probably ought to know that if you're going to…return…me."

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock. I'm Detective Constable Greg Lestrade."

He froze, turned to look at me, and stuck out his hand. We shook in greeting and continued walking west. "So where are you leading me and my bad knee, Sherlock?"

"Only over this hill to the cemetery."

I blinked.

"My father's funeral just ended and I heard the commotion caused by your police force."

Oh goodness. My eyes immediately flew to his face, as I anticipated tears. What I did not expect, however, was to see none. Sherlock continued, "Mummy might worry. Mycroft would be happy if I went missing. He's my older brother. He's irritating."

I grinned. Even intellectually advanced children had sibling rivalries. "I'm sure your brother would be worried about you."

The kid scoffed. "He's only seven years older than me. What's so great about being 12 anyway?"

Calculating quickly in my head, my brain screeched to a halt. Pardon me. Five? I stopped walking. "You're only five years old?"

Sherlock, who had kept walking, stopped, turned, and rolled his eyes. "I just said that. Keep up." He continued walking.

I trotted to keep up. A snarky five year old. How refreshing. Simply remarkable. "Well, Mycroft might be a pain right now but in a few years he'll graduate university and move on with his life."

Sherlock hmm'd a negative tone underneath his breath.

They crested the top of the hill together.

"How old are you?" Sherlock choked out.

"Don't ask questions often?" I smirked. I received a dry look in return. "I'm 21."

He nodded sharply and a comfortable silence settled between the two. They walked a few steps more before the silence was interrupted yet again. "So what happened back there?"

I was coming to find that Sherlock's mind was constantly trying to figure things out; that he saw things differently. "I can't tell you. Crime scenes are private and I could lose my job if I told you about it."

"That's a shame."

A group of people hugging and shaking hands came into view. As they came within hearing distance, Sherlock mentioned, "Told you I wouldn't be missed," but his words were contradicted when he heard a calm "Sherlock Holmes. Where have you been?" Sherlock briefly looked sheepish.

"Sorry, mummy. I found a crime scene and met a police officer." She nodded sharply and Sherlock wandered off to look at the varying headstones.

"Thanks for bringing him back. He does have a tendency to wander off at the least convenient times."

"No problem Mrs. Holmes. I'm just glad I was the one who found him instead of some less savory person. In this day and age one can never be too careful. But I better be getting back. I'm sorry for your loss." I topped my hat and she nodded politely.

As I began walking away, I heard hurried footsteps and a rushed "one second, mummy," coming from behind me. "Constable Lestrade?"

I turned around.

"You should question the dead guy's family members. And the guy who was collecting fingerprints? He was smudging evidence deliberately. Just thought you should know."

He spun around and ran back to his mum's side as she was opening her car door. Right before getting into the stretch limo, Sherlock turned and did the first age-appropriate activity I had seen him do all morning; he waved. _Definitely a strange kid._ I shook my head as they drove off and turned to limp back to the crime scene, attempting to wrap my mind around Sherlock's parting message.


	2. 10 & 26

"…and then she hung up on me. Which she had no right to do because it was my phone that _she_ called _me_ from!"

I heard a pause in the babbling next to me so I absentmindedly nodded to imply interest in Mal's speech. Not noticing my disinterest, Mal continued. "Well I was having none of that. So I went to her flat…"

I slowly tuned him out as I picked up the binoculars and gazed across the street to the building we were currently staking. Just as the previous 20 times I'd looked and just as the previous seven hours had shown, nothing fruitful was coming from this stakeout. If anything, Mal was causing me to slip into early insanity due to a gossip-induced rage. I sighed and lowered the binoculars yet again. _Once more into the breach._ Turning to my partner again, I wondered how long he could talk without taking a breath.

* * *

27 seconds later, I'd had enough. "I'm going to get more coffee," I interrupted and his tirade drew to a shuttered halt.

"Sure thing."

I got out of the car and briefly focused on the fresh air outside. Anything to get out of the car. I walked down the street and wondered to myself if Mal was still talking; if he'd forgotten I'd left and just continued venting. I allowed a smirk to grace my face as I entered the petrol station. I paid for my donut and slowly meandered my way back to my own personal hell, attempting to postpone the inevitable for as long as possible. As I took a bite of my donut, I was forced to sidestep a kid who was determinedly kicking a stone along the pavement.

Just as I had five years previously, I was forced to do a double take as a familiar shock of jet-black hair caught my interest. "Sherlock?"

The boy stopped mid-kick, shoulders tense. A split second later Sherlock whirled around, a mild and neutral expression on his face. "Constable Lestrade?"

Staring at his face, I briefly flashed back to the rainy day five years ago and the boy who had changed my career with just four sentences. "Actually, it's Detective Sergeant now."

A small smile was the result. "Congratulations. Was it the forensic analyst?"

"Don. Yes. Turns out that he and the victim were related, so technically you were right on both counts."

A slightly wider smile. "Yes, I thought so."

"Well thank you. Are you…have you wandered off again?"

"No Sergeant. I know exactly where I am and exactly where I'm supposed to be."

"Best be getting off then. I must return to my…car."

At this, Sherlock smirked. "Until next time Sergeant Lestrade." He turned, tucked his hands into his pockets and continued kicking his stone aimlessly down the street.

Shaking my head, I returned to the car.

* * *

"So I said to him, 'Sir,' I said, 'I can't believe you just said that.' I told him 'Sir, I might just have to report you.' And he just looked at me like he didn't think I would do it! So I did. I reported Reynolds to the Chief Superintendent and I'm waiting to see if anything comes from that…"

The kid was still gangly. He was going to grow into his shard features slowly. I could tell.

"What do you think? Shouldn't Reynolds be fired? I just can't believe he tried pulling rank in front of everyone like that…"

I looked at my watch. I looked at my watch again in confusion. It was a Tuesday. Midday. Why had Sherlock been walking down the street when he should have been in school? I glanced down the road but couldn't spot the young man among the small crowd of walking traffic. Curious. Being the police officer I am, I decided to investigate further.

* * *

Binoculars to my face should have reminded Mal that we had a job to do, even if we had just been sitting there for two days, but naturally nothing would deter him from talking about his upper level teams, dreams, and his grandmother down in Alabama. As I lowered the binoculars and checked my watch for the fifth time in as many minutes, Mal's voice bored into my brain.

"Grandmummy likes to talk about herself a lot. It's really hard to connect with her on any level."

I suddenly expelled a loud, long breath. "I'm going to go stretch my legs for a bit. I'll be back within the hour. Keep an eye on the flat. Don't forget."

"Right," and he picked up the binoculars with one hand, his mobile with the other.

Withholding my internal facepalm, I exited the car and slammed the door a little harder than maybe socially acceptable. I quickly walked to the same petrol station. I hung out in the back of the shop until I saw the ducked curly-hair-covered head trudge by. Allowing a minute to pass by, I followed Sherlock on his Wednesday midday walk. He aimlessly walked for about 35 minutes before he headed back to an exclusive private day-school and slipped through a side fence. I decided to call in a favor and ask my friend to look into when the school got out. 4:15. I could do that.

Nodding decisively, I headed wearily back to my job.

* * *

4:00 resulted in me standing at the fate to the school with a number of parents and nannies. Luckily, Sherlock happened to be one of the first out of the school doors. He immediately headed my way.

_Smart kid. He spotted me right off._

"Fifth grade gets the earliest release because we move quicker than the younger children," he explained without provocation. I nodded. "Makes perfect sense."

He glanced past me to look at a set of benches. Taking his nonverbal cue, we headed over to sit and speak alone.

"I wondered how long it would take you. It surprised me that you didn't say anything yesterday."

"Yes well, in my defense, you do seem to act much older than your actual age." The resulting silence was thick. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly," he responded immediately and sat up unconsciously as a group of three boys started walking our way. Eyes narrowed, I watched as Sherlock shrank into himself, attempting to make himself appear as small as possible. Of course, it doesn't always work that way.

"Hey Shirley!"

"Yeah, hey Shirley! How's your tongue?"

Sherlock snapped back, "It's fine! Why do you want to know?"

"Just figured you might need it to kiss up to the teachers arses. Wouldn't want it to go missing, now would we?"

My eyebrows rose and I stood up, the badge on my belt finally visible to the casual observer. "Are you children lost? Need help finding your parents?"

Eyes wide, the three boys scattered and I retook my seat next to the ten year old. Sherlock tucked his feet up onto the bench, knees under his chin.

"You didn't have to do that. You've just given them more ammunition to attack me with. I know it was unintentional, but think it through next time." If possible, Sherlock would have curled into a tighter, smaller ball.

"What class do you share with them?"

"Biology."

"But you're 10!"

"I'm a bit advanced."

 _Now there's an understatement if I'd ever heard one._ I accepted the statement without comment.

"Do you want to know how to get them off your back?"

Sherlock merely turned his head to the side and looked at me from between his fingers. He looked nonplussed. "I'm sorry?"

"The bullies. There are ways to get them to bugger off if that's what you want."

At this, Sherlock raised his head. "Elaborate."

I rolled my eyes. "Well, you could learn to argue with them, tell a parent or teacher, or you could learn martial arts. Maybe as a last resort."

"Argue…"

"Well, I'm not advocating this…but what you did to me at the crime scene? It's off-putting. If you did it to them, not viciously mind you, just…observe. Maybe they'd be as shocked as I was and back off."

With his brow furrowed, I realized it was the first time I'd ever seen him have to work through something. "Thank you, Sergeant."

"Everyone calls me Lestrade."

"Well then, Lestrade, I appreciate your thoughts. I'll have to think on them."

"Well, if you need any help in the future-" I pulled out my business card and handed it to him. His small thin hands grabbed it and tucked it between his knees in his tiny ball. We lapsed into silence until I overheard a worried but not surprised, "Sherlock?"

Unfurling, Sherlock stood and straightened his shoulders. He stuck out his hand, "Thanks Lestrade."

Chuckling, I responded "I hope I helped. If not, let me know." We shook our goodbye and as we let go and turned to walk away he froze; a step I was coming to understand meant he had something difficult to say. I waited patiently. "The person you're looking for left the flat three days ago. He took the bus with one medium sized duffle tote to Heathrow."

I nodded.

"Figured the least I could do was get you out of the car."

"It's appreciated," I responded dryly.

He smirked and walked off. As the boy who had changed my career with four sentences five years prior walked toward his mother, I turned and rushed back to my car to head into the met. A felon skipping town. Much more interesting than a stakeout.


	3. 17 & 33

"Alright. Everyone fall in on my call. Three, two, one, move move move!"

I moved with my unit towards the back door of the dormitory building at the university. Opening the handle, (How upsetting. Apparently only American actors got the chance to kick down doors,) the three men moved through the door and immediately covered the area to the right side.

"Clear," I whispered quietly and succinctly, waiting for the same word in response. The group leader nodded and waved his fingers up the stairs. Students began sticking their heads out of their bedrooms as muffled footsteps filled the halls. They were quickly shuffled back into the rooms as the Met police scoured the halls and ran up the stairs heading to the fourth floor.

As my leader rounded the corner to clear the third floor, he seemingly bumped into someone at the top of the stairs and almost fell backwards.

Falehart caught him and righted him, asking if he was all right. He brushed off the question and wheeled around to face the suspect of his ire. What he saw seemingly just made him angrier. "You need to watch where you're going. Go back to your room and sit there until you're given permission to leave." A scoff.

"I most surely will not! I believe I have no intention of doing so. I fully intend to continue on to the library."

I mentally facepalmed. "Hey, I got this. You go on."

Falehart and the captain shook their heads and muttered darkly under their breath as they walked off.

I finally took the last two steps to see Sherlock in my eye line. Sherlock's head and eyes quickly flicked to me. Immediately, he returned to his book, a text book that he seemed to be avidly interested in, if the speed he was flipping through the pages with and unblinking eye contact was anything to go by. His irises flickered as fast as a hummingbird's wings. I rolled my eyes. "Sherlock, you can't just say no to authority like that.

Yet another scoff. "Authority?" The sarcasm was evident in his tone.

I rubbed my hand through my hair. "Okay, I'm sure you observed tons of things that disproves his authenticity and right to hold his position, but the fact stands; you are in Uni. He is a police officer."

There was no response.

Deftly, Sherlock changed the subject. "What are you here for?"

I accepted the change without additional comment. "Well, I don't know how observant you are Sherlock, but there are a bunch of cops here roaming the halls. You should return to your room."

I hadn't known it was possible to roll your eyes while reading until I met Sherlock.

"My room is dull. Besides, my roommate has someone over." His voice was laden with double entendre.

I honestly didn't know what to say to that. "Do you have any friends that you could visit?"

He just looked at me and raised one eyebrow.

"Right. Either way, you can't stay in the hall Sherlock. You need to get out of the general vicinity. Out of the way of the Met."

Sherlock reached the last page of his text book and snapped it shut, his hands on either side looked like he was praying to the (…organic chemistry, was it?) text book. His head finally rose, eyes reaching mine. He took a breath to, I'm sure, launch into a tirade, when he was interrupted by two constables frog marching a student down in handcuffs. Whatever Sherlock was about to say caught in his throat as we both turned our heads to watch the suspect being hustled down the stairs.

"Where are you taking me? I didn't do anything!"

"You can tell us that back down at the station."

Sherlock and I locked eyes again and he simply rolled them.

"You certainly do that a lot."

He raised his eyebrow again.

"Master of the solo-eyebrow raise, you roll your eyes entirely too much. Some people might take offense."

"Well, I wouldn't be forced to roll my eyes if you people weren't so utterly moronic so as to arrest the wrong person."

I sighed a deep, heavy sigh, head rolling back, eyes reaching the ceiling. I cracked my neck on either side and met Sherlock's eyes again. "Alright. Lay it on me."

"That particular student is an idiot. His dormmate, on the other hand, now he's smart enough to pull off the hacking charges that you are mischarging the roommate with.

"He was smart enough to head out for pizza the second after he hacked into the server you caught him in. He knows that people trace IP addresses and if you traced this one, it would head back directly to the University.

"It's quite simple really. He is on his way to purchase a cheese pizza. He does that each time he pulls off a major job. If he comes back and sees the place surrounded, my guess is you'll never hear from him again."

"How do you know he's the hacker? Come to that, how did you know that we were looking for a hacker at all?"

"Well, I had hoped it was the hacker that you were looking for. He's been glaringly obvious. I figured out what he was doing ages ago. There's no way that an employee at a cinema could be making as much money as he has been. I looked into his bank account. He was and is spending his excess money in luxurious ways.

"He obviously wasn't selling drugs, I would know. So how did he get so much money?"

I chose to ignore the drugs comment. Before I could respond, Sherlock cut me off.

"So clearly you've arrested the wrong person. You people don't ever get the right one. Nonetheless, the arrest has been made, so I will continue on my walk to the library if you'd just so kindly let me pass."

I blinked and realized that I was blocking the stairwell. It was probably the only reason that he hadn't blown me off yet. I shook my head, grabbed him by the wrist, and dragged him down to the ground floor.

"We're going to walk to the corner and you're going to show me which student is the right student. Now which way is his pizza place?"

Sherlock hmph'd.

I let go of his arm and raised my eyebrows at him. He breathed out heavily, pulled his coat tighter around himself, and headed off to the East. I followed, grabbing the attention of two cops on the way down the street.

In front of us, the student reached the corner first. Turns out Sherlock wasn't needed after all. The second we were spotted, the young adult male student threw his pizza to the ground and took off running in the other direction.

Directed by instinct, the two cops immediately began pursuit.

As I called in the runner, I turned to look at Sherlock. Smug git was grinning. Of course he was.

"Until next time, Lestrade." He took the textbook out from underneath his arm and turned to head back towards the library.

"Sherlock."

This time, it was Sherlock who was awaiting the last word. He froze, shoulders pushed back. He didn't turn around, but I knew he would hear me. "I know you only did it to get past me to the library…but thanks."

A short and tight nod of his head indicated understanding.

He took a few steps more before I called out once more, "Sherlock."

Once again he froze, back to me. I waited until the seven officers ran past in pursuit of their newly fleeing suspect. As the area cleared I looked back to the back of Sherlock's head.

"Don't ever, and I mean _ever,_ let me catch you with drugs on your person. You got that?"

There was no nod this time. Just a deep breath and he continued walking.

 _I worry about that kid._ I turned around to see the tail end of the group of officers turning the corner. I shook my head and headed back to my patrol car. No sense in running when a car could go so much faster.


	4. 22 & 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of foul mouthedness. Sorry not sorry.

"Shit."

**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

On our way. Get out.

* * *

My phone buzzed from across the room and I blearily tilted my head towards the ringer, contemplating and weighing the pros and cons of getting off the couch and reading what was written there.

Deciding the physical act of sitting up was too complicated, I rolled off the couch instead and rolled into a sitting position. I waited for the dizziness to pass and then slowly crawled to my feet.

Nearly tripping over the rolled up corner of a stiff living room rug, I stumbled across the room to pick up my mobile.

**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

On our way. Get out.

* * *

"Bugger."

I surreptitiously called again, only to hear it ring out once more.

"Important call, Lestrade?"

Eyes wide, but ducked so Falehart couldn't see them, I quickly backpedaled. "Yeah. Trying to get ahold of my wife. She mentioned something about wanting a divorce as she walked out last night."

_An unfortunate half-truth._

Falehart winced in appreciation. "Sorry about that, mate."

I shrugged and noticed that Falehart was starting to brake. _Let the games begin._

I jumped out of the car as we arrived at Montague Street and bustled through the small throng of coppers and pedestrians to get to the front. Barring my path was a slow moving man who refused to get out of the way. As I attempted to dodge at the last minute, I accidently bumped his shoulder and sent him spinning. "I apologize," I said as I hurried past, already having forgotten the lanky dark-haired man… _or wait._

I spun back around to see if I could spot him again. Not only was he not there, but all the other pedestrians had been cleared from the area and it was simply swarming with police constables. Taking a deep breath, I slowed and settled down.

* * *

**From:** SH

**To:** Lestrade

My thanks.

**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

I'd say, "don't mention it," but we both know that's horseshit.

**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

Don't think that just because I can't prove it, I don't know what you're up to. I'm not saving your arse any longer.

**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

Get your shit together, Sherlock. Or next time you'll be arrested for possession of an illegal substance.

**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

And don't pretend that you aren't reading my texts. I know that you are, even if you aren't responding.

**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

Enjoy your last day of semi-legal freedom.

**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

I'm disappointed in you.

**From:** SH

**To:** Lestrade

Noted.


	5. 30 & 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I went back and found a script of A Study in Pink, which this chapter revolves around. Of course, there was one line of dialogue that completely destroyed the entire premise of this fanfic. So we're going to ignore the "I've known him for five years..." and we can all just go home happy. Mmk?

**From:** SH

**To:** Lestrade

Wrong.

  


**From:** SH

**To:** Lestrade

Wrong.

  


**From:** SH

**To:** Lestrade

You know where to find me. SH

* * *

  


**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

Could use your help on this case.

  


**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

You know, if you want to help, you really should make yourself more accessible.

  


**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

And perhaps answer your phone ever once in a while.

  


**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

Every*

  


**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

Fine! Know that I'm coming over.

* * *

 **From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

Interesting man you brought to the crime scene today. What was his name?

  


**From:** SH

**To:** Lestrade

Doctor John Watson

  


**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

Friend?

  


**From:** SH

**To:** Lestrade

Potential flatmate

  


**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

Proud of you.

  


**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

Any updates on the serial murders?

  


**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

Did you find the case?

  


**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

So you're ignoring me again. Right.

* * *

 **From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

You know, I'll be needing that badge back.

  


**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

And the rest of them too. I know you've started a collection.

  


**From:** SH

**To:** Lestrade

I haven't the foggiest of what you're speaking.

  


**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

Well if that's the way you're going to play…

* * *

 **From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

Damnit, Sherlock!

  


**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

Stop running off. We just agreed to work on this together.

  


**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

Sherlock, answer your phone.

  


**From:** G. Lestrade

**To:** Sherlock

Fine. If you see this, my phone is dying. Text Sergeant Donovan.

* * *

I directed the flow of officers around me as best as I possibly could considering the circumstances. I had Sherlock's promise that he would stop by in the morning to explain what had happened. Sally was doing her best to assist me in doing my job. Handy, that one.

Honestly, I had been blown away by the commitment I had just witnessed. No matter what Sherlock said, I knew I wasn't your every day, garden variety idiot. It was obvious that John had shot-

"His name was Jeff Hope," Sally stated as she walked back to the ambulance with the paramedics.

-Jeff Hope. John was loyal. And quickly.

_I'm going to have to look into him… figure out more about him._

I watched as the two men slowly walking away from the crime scene happened upon Mycroft. Evidently John had run into the elder Holmes before.

_Interesting. Maybe I don't need to check him out after all. Clearly, he's been vetted by the best already. I wonder to what purpose._

As the two walked off, I made eye contact with Mycroft and gave him the head nod of respect. He returned it and gathered his assistant back into the black town car.

My hand came up to tug on my hair and I made a split second impulse decision to pull out my phone to text Sherlock.

"Damn."

"Something I can help you with, Inspector?"

"Oh! Sally. I didn't see you-. No, it's just, my phone died. I needed to text someone."

"Here you are," and she handed me her phone. "I'm sure I can trust you to return it."

I nodded distractedly as I typed in the phone number I knew by heart. As it turned out, Sally had the number in her phone too.

  


**From:** Donovan

**To:** Sherlock

So John shot the cabbie…

  


**From:** SH

**To:** Donovan

I neither confirm nor deny this statement.

  


**From:** Donovan

**To:** Sherlock

Flatmate potential?

  


**From:** SH

**To:** Donovan

He's already moved in. Do keep up.

  


**From:** Donovan

**To:** Sherlock

:)

  


**From:** SH

**To:** Donovan

Oh, must you?

  


**From:** Donovan

**To:** Sherlock

Surely must.

  


**From:** SH

**To:** Donovan

Surely. Tough subject. I don't like that word.

  


**From:** Donovan

**To:** Sherlock

Surely you can't be serious!?

  


**From:** SH

**To:** Donovan

Yes, I am.

  


**From:** Donovan

**To:** Sherlock

…It's a shame that joke went completely over your head.

  


**From:** SH

**To:** Donovan

Was there something that you needed, Lestrade? I'm enjoying a delightful dinner.

  


**From:** Donovan

**To:** Sherlock

Enjoy your Chinese food. Be nice to the server.

  


**From:** SH

**To:** Donovan

He didn't wash his hands after using the facilities.

  


**From:** Donovan

**To:** Sherlock

Well then, by all means.

  


**From:** Donovan

**To:** Sherlock

But know that I'm not bailing you out of jail this time if someone calls the police on you again for being an arse.

  


**From:** SH

**To:** Donovan

Goodnight, Lestrade.

  


**From:** Donovan

**To:** Sherlock

Thank you for your help today. Night Sherlock.

  


**From:** Donovan

**To:** Sherlock

I'm proud of you.

* * *

Erase all messages?

Y/N

  


Are you sure you want to delete the Sherlock/Donovan message history?

Y/N

  


Messages have been erased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been delaying posting chapters of this fic because I've been stuck on the epilogue for about 6 months now. Finally started working on it tonight...which is why I'm allowing myself to (and rewarding my readers with) posting another chapter.
> 
> Hope you liked it.  
> If you want updates on my writing and general kookie-ness, come find my tumblr. Same username.  
> :)


	6. 33 & 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the deal guys. About a year passed for me (as a writer) between chapter 5 and chapter 6. After finally nailing down the reason for my flagging muse, I decided to do something about it. As such, you might notice that chapters 6 and 7 will be in third person narrative instead of first, as it has been. If this is a huge turn off for anyone, I apologize now...but it was either this or abandonment...

Only twice in his past had Mycroft walked into his office to find something sitting innocently, or otherwise, on his desk.  


One time had been two years prior when he’d walked in to find an unsigned congratulatory card about reaching his weight loss goals. Power of deduction had led to the conclusion that Anthea had actually looked up from her phone for a split second to notice precisely how much weight he had lost…and then promptly delved back into the piece of technology seemingly attached to her hand. It hadn’t worried him, not in the slightest, and it wasn’t an experience that had been repeated.  


The first time he had walked in to find a card on his desk had been a slightly larger problem. Admittedly, getting threatening letters was a daily happenstance in his general office. All members of his establishment mentioned them at one point or another. That said, they had always hit the mail-room which doubled as a screening office and been stopped. Prior to this instance, Mycroft had never actually held in his hand a threat to his person. He recalls distinct confusion as he held it, allowing no emotion to grace his brow, naturally, but the confusion was there none-the-less…that is, until he opened the letter. His head nodded in acceptance as he called in his personal assistant (This one was only Anthea v2. She had later been upgraded…). He handed the letter to her and sent her on her way, silently recalling the stack of resumes that he had at his beck and call, contemplating the hassle of replacing his assistant who let the threatening letter through. Deciding against it, he sat at his desk and took a minute out of his schedule to determine how he was going to handle this surprising turn of events.  


It had been five years since he’d thought of the Humphrey case. A traitor is not something he generally liked to think about on a regular basis, or even a semi-regular basis. In this instance, the traitor had managed to get away and scampered to the USA which, as of 2003, refused to extradite criminals to Britain. As such, diplomacy ruled that particular day and Humphrey had managed to get away. How he had managed to get back into Britain to leave a note on Mycroft’s desk was anyone’s guess. But the fact was he had and now Mycroft had to figure out how to handle it.  


Two days later, a different kind of letter was on Mycroft’s desk; one detailing the assassination of one Robert Humphrey who had been hiding out in Oklahoma, of all places. With a succinct nod, Mycroft shredded the document and went on with his day.  


The third time Mycroft walked into his office to find a letter on his desk, he cracked a minute smile (which he would later deny whole-heartedly). As he calmly approached his desk, he considered one of his recent meetings with his younger brother.  


* * *

Mycroft quietly tread the steps to 221B Baker Street. As he opened the door which was, as per usual, unlocked, he skimmed the premises, eyes passing right over Sherlock’s head and onto the television in front of him.  


_Ahh._  


Without sound, Mycroft observed one of Sherlock’s weekly rituals; watching Doctor Who.  


As the episode reached its conclusion, Mycroft quietly cleared his throat. Sherlock whirled around, eyes narrowed.  


“12 minutes,” Mycroft answered the unasked question.  


“Damnit,” Sherlock exasperated as he rolled back around to face the telly.  


“It’s a good episode. I enjoyed it the first time around.”  


“Yes well, you live alone. If John found out, I’d never hear the end of it.”  


Mycroft grinned to the back of Sherlock’s head. “As always, your secret is safe with me.”  


* * *

Mycroft looked upon the TARDIS blue envelope on his desk, reached down and slowly opened it with his perfectly manicured fingernails.  


“Anthea,” he quietly called out to his assistant. “Move my appointment with the ambassador to another available time.”  


* * *

Gregory Lestrade liked to think that he’d been around the block more than once. Over the course of his career, he had been a part of covert operations, drugs busts, a subject of legitimate bomb threats, and at one point (for about five hours) he had even been the suspect of a murder investigation; but the weirdest situations always were the ones that stuck out in his memory.  


* 1) How about the time where he ran into Sherlock cross-dressing and doped up on enough cocaine to kill a racehorse. That had ended very interestingly, with Sherlock trying to shove him into a dress to “play along”.  

* 2) He’d even been there when Sherlock and John had gone up against an imaginary hound. That had turned into a gaseous mess to report on back home.  

* 3) And he would never forget the instigating moment…the reason he decided to become a police officer. He awoke after a night of drunken debauchery to a complete hangover, no recollection of the previous night, holding a cake cutter, being prodded by an extremely lenient officer of the law. To this day, he still doesn’t remember how events came to be the way they were.
  


That was why when Detective Inspector Lestrade showed up to work one morning to find a blue envelope on his desk signed “anonymous” he wasn’t surprised; he simply rolled with the punches.  


The letter had been delivered to his work address, meaning whoever had delivered it had gotten through security without a problem. It hadn’t been sent to his home address, which was generally indicative of a stalker making his move. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he walked up to his desk and carefully picked up the letter from the corner. Ripping a small tear into the corner of the envelope and not experiencing any explosions bolstered his confidence. He opened the rest of the envelope and pulled out a letter from within. Unsigned, naturally, but still.  


_Now this is interesting…_  


* * *

Five days later, Gregory Lestrade strode up Kensington High Street with a blue envelope in his fist. He was met by Mycroft Holmes, whom he knew but not intimately.  


“Do you have any idea what this is about?”  


“I have, as I’m sure you have, a pretty solid idea of who sent the letter, but as to the cause of our gathering, I have no clue.”  


Lestrade nodded. “Right, it really isn’t like him to send a letter instead of just texting.”  


Mycroft smirked, “Well, it just might be a special occasion.”  


With a slight raise of his brow, both Greg and Mycroft turned to look upon the cab that was pulling up to their corner. As the door opened, out stepped a rather confused but resigned looking John Watson and a semi-oblivious to the confusion Martha Hudson.  


John paid the cabbie and walked up to Greg to shake hands. “Any clue what’s going on?”  


At the all-around negative response, John stepped aside and let Mrs. Hudson say hello to the other two gentlemen. The conversation continued on slowly but comfortably as they awaited the only missing factor to their group of misfits.  


They weren’t kept waiting long.  


* * *

Sherlock stormed up the street and came to a sudden halt before the group. “John, I need to speak to you.”  


“Okay…” John trailed off as Sherlock grabbed his wrist and began dragging him back down the street. “Sherlock, where are you taking me? If you tell me, I’ll follow and you won’t have to drag me.”  


Shaking his head as if to dislodge a certain thought, Sherlock abruptly let go of John’s wrist. They continued down the street until they were a block away. Sherlock led John into an alley between two buildings. John’s confusion grew as Sherlock reached up and grabbed a fire escape ladder to pull down. With a wave of his wrist, he gestured that John should precede him.  


* * *

_Don’t you think for a moment, Mycroft Holmes, that your smug smirk is escaping my notice just because I’m holding a conversation with Mrs. Hudson. I know you know what’s going on…_  


About 15 minutes later, Sherlock returned dragging a grinning John. As the conversation trailed off Sherlock announced, “If you’ll follow me across the street,” and turned to walk away.  


Lestrade rolled his eyes at the impolitely phrased request but followed the directions anyway. The entire group was herded into a registrar office where Sherlock and the register superintendent were waiting for them. Sherlock motioned John to his side and turned to the superintendent. “This is John Watson,” is all he said.  


Awareness crept into Mrs. Hudson’s eyes, the last to catch onto the current proceedings.  


Mycroft, Martha, and Greg all watched as John and Sherlock filled out the paperwork to complete their civil partnership. Greg and Mycroft were asked to sign as witnesses and then it was over. Simple as that.  


After the shortened ceremony, Sherlock turned and offered a small grin at Lestrade, holding out his hand to shake. Greg grabbed it and pulled Sherlock in for a hug against his will.  


“You right prig. Why didn’t you tell anyone what was going on?”  


“Didn’t want to announce anything unless it was an absolute certainty,” Sherlock explained as he disentangled himself from Lestrades limbs. “It all rode on John’s answer.” He smiled.  


“Yeah well, we already thought he was mildly insane for agreeing to the flatshare with you. This was the only logical next step for a pair as ridiculous as you two.”  


“Oy! I resemble that remark,” John stated from across the room where he was being accosted by a tearful Mrs. Hudson.  


Sharing a chuckle, the group made its way outside to find one of Mycroft’s army of cars waiting for the newlywed couple.  


“Thanks for sparing us the taxi, Mycroft.”  


"It’s no problem what-so-ever, John.”  


Greg watched as Mycroft pulled John to the side and observed Mrs. Hudson still sniffling obliviously, content in her happiness, so he gripped Sherlock’s sleeve and slowly led him back to the building overhang.  


Sherlock cocked his eyebrow at Greg, face still sporting a grin that Greg doubted would disappear for at least 24 hours.  


He launched into his spur-of-the-moment speech, knowing that if he waited any longer Sherlock wouldn’t take it as it was meant.  


“I just wanted you to know, for what it’s worth, that I’m proud of you. I’m extremely happy for you that you found your other half, the one who can tolerate you on even your worst days. I couldn’t be prouder of you than I am today and I wish you the very best in your future.” Greg sported a smile but his eyes looked sad.  


Sherlock swallowed slowly but nodded stutteringly, seemingly nodding simply to keep from choking up. The two of them stood there awkwardly, neither making a move, until Greg took pity on Sherlock and gathered him up for another round of hugs and pats on the back.  


Sherlock composed himself and stepped back. He nodded (noticeably smoother this time) and turned abruptly to rejoin the rest of the group.  


Gregory followed slowly behind him, hands in his pockets, a content look on his face.  


Sherlock and John rode off in one of Mycroft’s “chariots,” heading for 221B Baker Street. The group split and went their separate ways but wouldn’t be parted for long. Oh no, they wouldn’t be parted for long. After all, the criminals of London don’t take a break simply because the sky split in two, the sun beginning to shine on a newly bonded couple after a monumental occasion never thought possible.  


Greg turned and meandered down Kensington High Street. _I’ll give the lovebirds…three days. Three days, the Yard can manage on its own._


	7. 67 & 83

It was sunny.

A bright and sunny day that London so infrequently experienced. Though he had only just stepped out of the car, John felt the sun bearing down oppressively, soaking into his skin, burning the back of his neck.

How dare the weather conspire against and contradict the mood of the day.

John turned back to the limousine to assist his husband from the vehicle.

“Wrong kind of weather,” Sherlock muttered.

John gave a wry grin, expressing his agreement.

Near silence surrounded the two, as a few select people gathered and mingled under a pitched tent. The two made their way towards Detective Inspector Donovan, shoes sinking in softened ground that never fully hardened due to acclimatization of the London weather.

John provided an arm for Sherlock to hold onto as he slowly but only semi-confidently lowered himself into a chair, many years of insufficient care of his body finally having caught up with him. John turned back around to greet Sally before lowering himself into the chair next to Sherlock, heaving a sigh. Sherlock’s left hand timidly inched out towards John’s right and without hesitation, John grabbed it, weaving his fingers through his partners.

The two sat in silence, letting the quiet twitter of congregants flow over them, waiting for the ceremony to begin.

As the mourners slowly trickled into their seats, Sally wove her way up to the podium.

“Morning,” she mumbled into the podium microphone, clearing her voice as the crowd response varied.

“I actually did research on how to write a eulogy. Apparently, these things typically begin with something to the tune of ‘It is with great sadness that I stand in front of you today to celebrate the life of my friend.’ Seems so impersonal,” she paused and cleared her throat.

“I’ve known Greg Lestrade for the past 38 years. I had to do the math. When you’ve known someone that long, sharing just one personal anecdote is inconceivable, so I’m not going to try. Everyone here knew Greg in some form; whether father, friend, family, boss, or acquaintance, his personality brought joy to all those he interacted with.”

John looked down at their clasped hands, brow furrowed as Sherlock’s grip tightened. His eyes flicked up to Sherlocks’ and squeezed his hand in response.

“Gregory Lestrade was the most patient and kind person I’ve ever had the fortune of calling my friend. Both the Yard and humanity have lost a great asset and we’ve all lost a great man. I can only hope he’s conforming to the cliché, shaking up the afterlife in all of the best ways.”

Sally looked down at her unused notes. Nodding her head solemnly, she smiled to herself and looked up at the mourners. “Rest in peace, old friend.”

She gathered her notes and stepped away from the podium, returning to her seat. The crowd was silent, waiting for someone, anyone really, to step up and speak. As the silence extended, more than one person twisted in their chair to sneak a peek to Sherlock and John sitting in the back row. The two ignored the uncomfortable hush, Sherlock staring at the coffin, John staring at Sherlock.

As no one made as if to get up and speak, the layperson stepped forward to recite the final psalm. The gatherers collected their belongings and stood to give their respect, moving towards the open casket.

Sherlock rose fluidly, turned abruptly, and strode away, slipping through and past the mourners heading to the front of the procession. John exhaled slowly and hoisted himself up, the day weighing heavily on his heart. Ignoring the wandering and questioning eyes, John slipped into the line and waited his turn at the casket.

“What a run it’s been. You know I’ll keep him safe, not just for you but for the both of us. So long old friend.”

John let his head fall and his eyes slip shut. Merely thirty seconds later, with renewed vigor, John straightened up, nodded his head, turned away from the remnants of his adventuresome youth, and set off to catch up with his husband.

* * *

Sherlock said nothing on the way home. John inched his hand over the middle seat and left it upturned for the offering. Five minutes into the ride, Sherlock wove his fingers through Johns’. Silence dominated the car but John squeezed his hand frequently to let Sherlock know that he was still there. When the car arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock took his hand back and slowly exited without waiting for Johns’ assistance.

John was concerned. Admittedly, Sherlock had utilized the silent treatment before, but that was after a case that hadn’t ended well. In fact, in the 34 years the two had been together, John couldn’t think of anyone that Sherlock had lost, aside from the faked death of Irene Adler several years prior. Was this quiet Sherlock typical after a death or was the death of Greg Lestrade affecting Sherlock on a deeper level?

Quietly opening the door and slipping through, John found himself in an oddly-quiet 221B. Mind you, it had gotten progressively more quiet in the few preceding years, but never to this level of uncomfortable eerie empty silence. He wandered through the flat, gathering Sherlock’s funeral finery only to find the man himself in their bedroom sprawled on the bed with his fingers steepled under his chin. John carried the fancy clothes to the closet to hang up what could be salvaged and tossed the rest in their small dry-clean basket. As he dumped the clothes, he looked back to Sherlock, head held strong. “Let me know how to help you,“ he whispered.

Not expecting an answer, he undressed and re-dressed more comfortably. As expected, Sherlock maintained his silence as John picked up the phone and headed to the kitchen to make tea. John started up his kettle, splayed his hands on the countertop and finally allowed his head to drop. He let out a sigh and let his eyes slip shut once again.

_How long is this going to last?_

Finishing the tea preparations, John took a second cup back to his husband and placed it on the nightstand. Giving Sherlock the silence he seemed to crave, John took his leave and wandered back to the middle of the flat. As he gazed upon the living room, he shrugged off his melancholy and turned on the telly to distract himself.

* * *

John crawled into bed at twilight and once again offered up his hand. After ignoring it for twenty minutes, just at the crest of falling asleep, Sherlock rolled over and laid his head on John’s shoulder. John wiggled his hand underneath Sherlock’s body and curled his arm around his husband’s shoulders. No words were spoken as John stroked his fingers down Sherlock’s arm until both fell into a fitful sleep.

* * *

John was abruptly awoken as Sherlock shifted and sat up, rubbing his eyes tiredly. That, in itself, told John that Sherlock still wasn’t working at full capacity; he was still working something through in that magnificent head of his.

Maintaining his silence, Sherlock stood from the bed and wandered through to the living room. He returned a moment later, carrying their laptop. He opened it as he got back into the bed, sitting with his back resting against the headboard. He recovered both himself and John with the warm quilt.

Accepting this as normal, John rested his head on Sherlock’s hip and drifted off back to sleep…

…only to wake up some time later to an empty bed.

John stretched his arms up over his head, arching his back until the tell-tale creaks and aches of age shifted and settled. Glancing around the room proved that his wayward husband was nowhere to be seen. John fell back onto his back and glanced up at the ceiling, quietly wishing for an easy day after the emotionally strenuous day prior. He sat up and twisted his neck to both sides, hearing the popping and cracking that was a now normal occurrence.

“Sherlock?” he called without shouting.

Receiving no answer, he wrapped his dressing gown around his body and tied the sash, exiting the room to find his husband of 34 years out like a light, strewn lankily across the couch. John, determined not to wake him up, tread carefully into the kitchen where he started boiling water for his morning cup of tea and toasting bread for breakfast.

He ran downstairs to get the post, stopping to chat with their new tenant on the way, and returned to the flat. Sherlock was still dead to the world, so John made room for himself at the kitchen table and ate his meal. He flipped the newspaper to its full size and registered what was on the first page. The toast that had been halfway to his mouth froze and John’s eyes widened.

The picture of Sherlock and Greg that graced the first page was one that had been taken a few decades prior. Coming off the high of a successful deduction, Sherlock and John had followed Greg out of the deceased’s house only to have been confronted by a veritable tableau of news outlets. Having been caught by surprise, the picture showed Sherlock and John smiling fondly at Greg, who was completely oblivious to the two behind him.

John blinked to awareness and allowed his eyes to scan up in order to read the paper’s headline.

**His Contributions will Never be Forgotten  
** _By: Anonymous_

Greg Lestrade always did his best to see the good in people. Not the great…but simply the good. Both friend and enemy alike felt his calm influence as they changed and molded – intentionally or not – to fit into his vision of a better life. With the patience of a saint, Lestrade navigated the muddy waters of inter-office politics, government interference, and questionable personal relationships all while maintaining the tiresome and emotionally challenging job of Constable, Detective, Inspector, and eventually Chief Detective Inspector. Not many could have handled the constant stress that his job brought…and even fewer could do it while constantly under fire for his questionable methods to get the case solved at any cost.

He will be missed, not only as a public servant, but as a husband, a father, a friend, and as a man.

_Editor’s Note: This missive was received late into the night. Though originally planning to write our own obituary, this anonymous email touched on exactly what was intended. It was printed as received, undergoing no editing before deadline. Thanks goes out to our anonymous eulogizer, whomever you may be.  
_

John thought about Sherlock’s silence the night prior. There was no doubt in his mind who the “anonymous” contributor had been.

He laid the paper back down on the table as he thought back to his first few interactions with then Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

“Sherlock Holmes is a great man. With a little help, someday, he might even be a good one.”

John smiled. Being someone’s guiding light in the journey from greatness to goodness was not a one-person job.

“It couldn’t have been done without you, my friend,” John murmured under his breath. “You meant more than either of you ever said, but I know you were clever enough to know how he felt.” Making peace with the matter, John finished up his toast and tipped his imaginary hat skyward, “So, thank you.” And with that, John sat back to sip at his tea and enjoy the rest of his magazine. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written over the span of a year, so I apologize if the writing seems off or it seems...unbeta'd? Hurried? Either way, I didn't want to leave anyone hanging. So here's the final chapter of Fortunate Son.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it. This is a fanfic that I'm rather proud of...so if you thought it terrible, please break it to me gently.
> 
> Until next time, dear readers.
> 
> ~Moldy


End file.
